


Beyond the Seaquel

by alreadysomeone



Category: JAG (TV 1995)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alreadysomeone/pseuds/alreadysomeone
Summary: Sequel to “Beyond the Sea."  It’s been 10 weeks since Mac and Webb’s unexpected South Pacific rendezvous.  Now Webb needs Mac’s help with a mission…Will their romance pick up where it left off?  Will Mac’s fellow JAG officers figure out that it was Webb who put that post-vacation smile on Mac’s face?
Relationships: Sarah MacKenzie/Clayton Webb





	Beyond the Seaquel

**Author's Note:**

> The character pseudonyms “Nigel Rowan” and “Sarah Layton” are taken from characters in the wonderful quartet of books “The Raj Quartet” by Paul Scott (later turned into a Masterpiece Theatre series called “The Jewel In The Crown”). And there’s a little ‘shout out’ to Ahmed Kasim as well; just a silly little tribute to how much I loved “The Jewel In The Crown.” Chapter titles are lyric lines from the song “Beyond The Sea.”

~ Part One ~ Somewhere Beyond the Sea

//WEBB//

As my cell phone started to ring with its staccato beeps, I sat up in bed with a start. Recognizing the number on the caller id, my insides jumped and my heart pounded as I flipped the phone open to answer with a smile, “Hello, Miss Layton.” 

“Um, Cabby?” I could hear just a hint of hesitation in Mac’s voice. 

“No, Nigel Rowan.” Knowing the room was probably bugged, I gave her the name I’d been using for the Dubrovnik assignment; but I was sure she’d know it was me. 

Just as I was about to ask how she’d liked the fruit basket, someone kicked in the door, sending hinges and splinters of wood flying. 

“Bayad raftan,” I shouted quickly into the phone. I was almost sure it meant something like ‘I’ve got to go,’ and hoped that Mac was able to decipher my extremely limited Farsi. 

Tossing the phone aside, I drew my weapon as I leapt out from under the covers. After a short brawl with the sorry excuse for an assassin, I called in for back up and said a silent word of thanks that the mission was over. 

But it wasn’t. 

There were complications. One of our agents was killed, the whole mission was all but blown, and there were weeks and weeks of interrogations and debriefings ahead. 

It was exhausting, and now, eight weeks later, it’s still unfinished. We still need to catch them red-handed, and, for that task, I get to be the bait on the hook to reel them in. 

Not my version of an ideal plan, but I don’t always have the kind of control over my missions that I’d like. It’s a pitfall of working for a massive bureaucracy. The frightening thing is that it’s not just paper we push around; it’s national security and people’s lives. 

For this next mission, other than my own, one person’s life in particular is going to be put into jeopardy for this next mission, and I’m not at all happy about it. 

I haven’t been able to talk with Sarah since we left the island airport. Now, the next time I’ll see her is when Admiral Chegwidden will inform her that the Secretary of the Navy has approved orders for her to join me on an undercover operation in the Middle East . I was reluctant to involve her, but operatives who speak Farsi are still limited. Operatives who I trust with my life, even more so. 

In an ironic twist, she’ll be posing as my mistress. As much as the concept would ordinarily excite me, I loathe the thought of it under these dirty and dangerous circumstances. 

Technically, I’m still supposed to be out of the country; my ‘cover’ is still in place, which places me in Europe . I’ve been staying in a Company safe house, and there’s no way I could get away with calling Sarah to warn her that I’ll be showing up at her office tomorrow to drag her into this messy, ridiculous operation. 

I’m tired and I’m frustrated. Letting my body go limp, I collapse onto the couch, and I look over to the kitchen of the safe house; make that ‘being held’ rather than staying – I’d much rather be home. On top of the orange Formica counter sits my one souvenir from the Beachcomber. A coconut; a small one. I really hate inane touristy trinkets, but wanted something to remind myself that those heated days and nights with Sarah were real. 

Thinking of her reclining against a certain palm tree, I can feel the familiar pull of desire on my groin. Although I’ve tried to abstain, I know that in a minute I’ll have my hand in my boxers stroking myself, pretending it’s her pleasuring me.

//MAC// 

When he answered the phone, Webb gave me a different name, Nigel Rowan. I assumed the line wasn’t secure, but we barely got two sentences in before there was a crash on his end of the line. 

“Bayad raftan.” I could hear the tension in his voice and a scuffle beginning as he hung up. It sounded like he’d been studying Farsi from a phrase book, and not doing a very good job of it, but I got the gist. 

That was eight weeks ago, and I haven’t heard from him since. I’d tried the number several more times, but no one ever answered, and, eventually, there was only a message saying that service had been shut off. 

Even though I knew the name he was traveling under, there was no way for me to inquire about his safety or the nature of his mission without giving away the fact that we’d had contact. I didn’t want to jeopardize his cover or put him in any danger. 

At least work has been keeping me busy. That’s helped keep my mind from worrying about Webb or speculating overly much about what happened between us at the Beachcomber. 

Although too often, alone in my bed at night, I haven’t been able to help replaying things he said to me, moments that passed between us, or the way we’d made love. 

On some of those nights, feeling lonely, unsure of what our relationship might be now, and anxious about his safety, I acquiesce to my desires and touch myself, imagining that it’s Webb. 

I let the memories flash through my head and try to envision how our next conversation - our next meeting - will go; but I can never fill in the details. 

My fantasies invariably slide into a clichéd romance-movie motif where love is effortless and conquers all, or into something far more pornographic. Either way, I end up rousing my body to climax, my heart aching for Webb; but afterwards, of course, I still have no answers. 

The confusion of what transpired between us feels so dissimilar to what I had – or never quite had – with Harm, or even Mic. With Harm, everything was under the surface and unexpressed. Mic and I had a *nice* relationship, but it was an illusion; something a contrivance of my own making. 

Things with Webb were both thrilling and comfortable. There’s an ease about him you’d never suspect. And now that I’ve experienced that facet of his personality, I don’t know if I can go back to a detached, professional relationship. 

The fruit from the gift basket he sent is long gone, but I still have the card that came with it. “I meant what I said.” I hope he still means it, and I marvel how I fell for him so fast. Those thoughts float through my mind when there’s nothing else keeping me occupied. Like now. Just as I’m about to give into this sinking feeling of frustration, the phone rings. 

“Colonel, the Admiral would like to see you, ASAP.” 

“Thanks Tiner, I’ll be right there.” 

~ Part Two ~ Somewhere Waiting for Me 

//MAC// 

I make my way to the Admiral’s office, and Tiner waves me right in. I stand at crisp attention until he instructs, “Have a seat, Colonel.” 

As I lower myself into one of the leather chairs, I notice a figure leaning against the built-in bookshelves next to the door. 

Webb. 

An electric current of adrenaline instantly shoots through me, all the way to my hands and feet. I’m both relieved and nervous. But instead of reacting to my presence, it’s as if Webb hasn’t noticed that I even entered the room. 

His head is down, his arms are crossed over his chest, and his mask of arrogance is perfect. As the Admiral begins to speak, Webb shifts his eyes up, scarcely lifting his head. He appears barely aware of the Admiral’s presence, and only glances in my general direction. 

Webb’s got on a charcoal three-piece suit. I’m not sure if it’s the same one he had at the Beachcomber when I last saw him, but it brings me back to our last few hours together, watching him walk away from me in the airport, right after he’d whispered the words, “I love you,” into my ear. 

He’s got a fresh scar over his right eyebrow, and I wonder if he was wounded anywhere else. I’m also curious about what the other guy looks like. 

I have to force my mind to focus on what the Admiral’s saying. He’s talking about an international defense exhibition in the United Arab Emirates . It’s black- and gray- market sales of arms, intelligence, and countless other items not legally traded or sold. 

“Webb expects there to be some things for sale that the CIA has a particular interest in. An off-shoot of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad terrorist organization has been blackmailing field agents, either by gathering evidence of security clearance abuse or embarrassing sexual habits.”

Webb speaks up to describe how the operation works; his eyes are trained alternately on the floor or the Admiral, but he stays rooted where he is.

“Someone from this ‘renegade’ cell approaches an agent with a photograph or recording of an impropriety, and threatens exposure to their boss, wife, or family. A handful of agents have come forward, which is how we know that the tapes or photos are usually offered with a guarantee of discretion in exchange for classified information.” 

The Admiral takes over again, vaguely alluding to a sting that went bad several weeks ago. I see Webb reach his hand to gingerly finger his scar. He must’ve been involved in whatever happened.

The CIA is setting Webb up as a blackmail target. He’s higher up in the Company than agents targeted thus far, and will bring a lot of attention and prestige to the cell. Intel points to these guys being a bit desperate to gain a more prestigious reputation.

“Even though they know we were inches from catching them just two months ago, I’m - we’re - the live bait they won’t be able to resist; and there’ll be other operatives in place at the exhibition to buy back some of the intelligence they’ve managed to get a hold of through this little scheme.” 

When he says ‘we’re,’ Webb looks directly at me, convincing me that it’s an allusion to the fact that I’ll be involved in the operation. But there’s something behind his intense stare that I want to question him about. 

My gut tells me that it’s something beyond any personal awkwardness there may be between us; he’s not comfortable with this mission, or there’s something he’s not telling me; or both. 

“Which is why, Colonel, you were chosen for this assignment.” 

“Excuse me, sir?” I ask the Admiral, caught off guard. 

“I said, because you and Webb have a history of working together, and you can handle yourself in these kinds of situations, you’re the ideal choice for the undercover assignment.” 

“Thank you, sir.” I’m still not sure what exactly the assignment is, but am keenly aware of the words ‘you and Webb’ and ‘undercover’ confirming my suspicion that I’ll be right in the middle of things. 

The Admiral continues outlining the mission. “Already in place are several plants of evidence that point to Webb as an ideal blackmail target. To assure the bait will be taken, they’ve given Webb a personal reason for blackmail: adultery.” 

At the mention of Webb and adultery I get fidgety. My hand reflexively goes to my ear to play with one of my earrings. They’re the ones from Webb, and, as I realize this fact, my eyes shoot up to meet his for a moment and I see a smile playing on his lips. I let my eyes linger on his sensuous lips, but damn it, I still can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

“Mac, you’ll be traveling to Dubai with Webb, posing as his mistress. CIA agents, as well as Commander Rabb and myself, will be staying in the same hotel, monitoring and recording the situation, so when the blackmail tape turns up on the market, as we’re anticipating it will, we can ascertain the - um - authenticity.” 

I’ve got on a pretty good poker face, but the Admiral’s turning really quite red. If this situation weren’t so bizarre, I’d be thoroughly amused at his embarrassment. I look to Webb again, who’s stone-faced and not giving away anything. 

Pacing up and down a few times, the Admiral proceeds in an overly confident voice. “I realize, Colonel, that this might well qualify as ‘above and beyond the call,’ and, so, I apologize in advance – and strongly encourage Mr. Webb to do the same – for any embarrassment this assignment might cause you. I’d like to give you the opportunity to refuse the orders with no repercussions.” He finishes up with a dagger-like glare in Webb’s direction for emphasis. 

“Of course, we won’t expect you to, um… actually *do* anything, but you’ll need to be convincing enough for the audio tape.” 

I open my mouth to speak, but it takes a moment to form the words. “Thank you, Admiral. Of course, I’ll do whatever’s required of me to complete the mission. But, sir, what makes you so positive there won’t also be video, as well as audio?” 

“It hasn’t been their pattern. But if there are cameras, the CIA tech guys that’ll be there will be sure to scramble the signal,” Webb fills in. 

//WEBB// 

Only after Chegwidden threatened to break my nose again, and I assured him that the mission scenario hadn’t been my idea, I let myself think about seeing Sarah. 

Sometime over the last few weeks, I started thinking of her as Sarah. While we were at the Beachcomber, she was always ‘Mary’ or Mac. But now, trying to imagine seeing her in a serious relationship, I’d like her to be Sarah. 

She’s been Mac the Marine since we met. Now, she’s Sarah MacKenzie the woman. 

Truthfully, she’d been in the forefront – or, at the very least, the back – of my mind nearly continuously since leaving the Beachcomber. But I’ve tried to keep my thoughts about her strictly professional in relation to this case, at least as long as possible. 

She’d walked into the Admiral’s office, shoes clicking neatly on the hard floor, uniform pressed,   
and ready for business. In contrast, I wanted to talk openly with her, tell her that I missed her. I wanted to hug and kiss her. Then I wanted to take her home and make love to her. 

When I saw that she was wearing the earrings I’d given her, I allowed myself a small smile, which was probably interpreted by the Admiral as the smirk of a self-satisfied asshole – and one who was about to pose as the lover of one of his officers. 

After another veiled threat at bodily harm, he tried his best to give her an easy out. But like the pro she is, there was no way Sarah was going back off from a tough assignment. 

The Admiral’s allowing me to fill in the rest of the details of the plan, and I’m doing my best to be all business. Clearing my throat, I steel my nerves before giving her the particulars. 

“As the Admiral said, I’ll be traveling as myself to lure the terrorists. You’ll be undercover as my mistress, ‘Sarah Layton.’” 

I see her blink twice in rapid succession as I finish the statement. But she doesn’t let her guard down one inch, refusing to reveal that there’s ever been anything but Navy and CIA business between us. 

I’d purposely picked the name Layton as a reminder of her alter ego from the Beachcomber, but I wanted to use her first name. It was selfishness on my part; I want to call her Sarah in front of her co-workers. 

Okay, in front of Rabb. 

I’ll be man enough to admit that even though Sarah led me to understand that Rabb’s not what she wants, he’s still a sore spot for me. I refuse to recreate the territorial wars that he and Brumby had, but I’m a man, and I can’t help feeling protective of the woman I want. 

“Papers have been put in place for your identity. Information has been planted pointing to me as a hot target – a highly placed agent with personal problems. As we anticipated, my home and cell phones were bugged sometime last week. The next step will be for the two of us to have some convincing contact.”

The Admiral chose that moment to take over. Thank God, things were getting really awkward. Mac’s had her eyes glued on me the whole time, but she keeps glancing at the Admiral like she wishes he’d disappear into thin air. ‘Me, too,’ I try to telepath to her.

“Mr. Webb has taken the liberty of bugging your home phone, so the CIA will have clean, original recordings to compare to the ones that will be used as blackmail leverage. This evening, you’ll receive a call from Webb, and you’ll need to be believable. Since I’ve already apologized once for the nature of this assignment, I won’t patronize you by doing it again. But, Colonel, be assured that you will have my continued respect as an officer and as a friend.”

‘I *bet* you will,’ my sarcastic mind editorializes. I’m sure there are quite a few members on staff at JAG that’d love to get their hands on the tapes we’re going to make. I make a mental note to track *every* copy of the CIA and Navy tapes that are made of Sarah and me. 

“I didn’t pick Mac for this assignment, Admiral; it wasn’t left up to me.” I want her to be sure that this isn’t just a set-up to have phone sex and play-act as lovers. 

As we file out of the Admiral’s office, I’m keenly aware of Sarah walking alongside me. I feel her eyes fall on me and my heart rate picks up. But it seems that she’s not going to make the first overture. So I will; I need to make some kind of contact with her. 

Over the next couple of weeks the situation will be tense and awkward, and I don’t want to let things get beyond the point where it’s too late to talk. Too late to say what we’re really feeling. 

“Your oak leaves are crooked, Colonel,” I say, reaching over to twist her rank insignia back into place. I let my thumb slide purposefully against her shoulder. So much for ‘strictly professional.’ 

~ Part Three ~ My Heart Will Lead Me There Soon 

//MAC// 

With his home and cell phones tapped, and, more than likely, his office line isn’t secure either, so I can’t even attempt to contact Webb. 

He’d left the office in a hurry after our briefing with the Admiral. But he knew what he was doing when he adjusted my oak leaves that way. And I’d loved it. His touch, even through my uniform jacket, sent my body humming. 

Just before 5 o’clock, a courier delivers a package containing the mission briefing book and identification documents for Sarah Layton. As soon as I’m able, I leave the office, head straight home, kick off my heels, put on some comfortable clothes – my favorite old pair of jeans - and begin poring over the materials, concentrating hard on absorbing the information. 

According to the scenario, the phone is due to ring any minute. Based on the latest intelligence reports, Webb will set the tone of our conversation, and I’m to follow his lead. 

It creeps me out somewhat that the CIA has bugged my phone, and that, however our exchange unfolds tonight, Webb and I will be recorded, not just by those with hostile intentions, but by colleagues and co-workers. I understand the need to ensure the authenticity of the recordings that will be used for blackmailing Webb, but I don’t have to like it. 

As I’m pouring a cup of tea, the phone rings. My stomach lurches in anticipation, and I nearly spill the hot drink. Taking a deep breath, I lift the cordless phone off its cradle and answer. 

“Hello?” 

“Sarah? It’s Clay.” 

*Clay*? I’m confused for a moment but recover quickly. If Sarah Layton and Clay Webb are lovers, of course she’d call him by his first name. 

“Oh, Clay, it’s been sooo long.” I’m playing it up with a whiny voice, but the words are true to my feelings. 

“I know. And I’m so sorry. Work, umm, family; you know.” 

We make small talk for a few minutes, and he invites me to travel to Dubai with him for a business trip. I squeal in girlish delight, again playing up the mistress role. 

If I’m not mistaken, he’s really nervous. But, if I didn’t know what it was like to hear him talk to a woman he was intimate with, I wouldn’t be able to tell. And I wonder if the tension is there because of the mission or me. 

“So, will you come? I can’t wait to see you again. I’ve missed you; I’ve missed making love to you,” he says, softly, almost shyly. 

Okay *now* we’re getting somewhere. 

“I’ve missed you, too. I think about you when I’m alone in bed at night.” I don’t know if that’s where he planned on heading, but I decide that I might as well be honest. It’ll simply sound more believable, and I’m hoping I can convey to Webb – to *Clay* – that I mean what I’m saying. 

“Me, too. I get turned on just thinking of you in that bikini, on the topless beach.” 

Maybe he’s doing the same thing. It hadn’t occurred to me before now, but because we have a sexual past that no one else is privy to, we can freely use those details as plausible exploits for Clay Webb and Sarah Layton. 

Feeling bold, I decide to go for it. “Are you turned on now?” 

He hesitates slightly before answering. “Yes… How about you?” 

His voice is husky and low. There’s a long pause between his reply and the question, as if he was afraid to ask. In the silence, I hear him breathing into the phone, and, all of a sudden, I’m remembering his breath, hard and heavy in my ear as we pounded into each other, desirous and eager for one another. 

“I really want you.” 

“Well, what are we going to do about it?” There’s a hint of teasing in his voice. The Clay Webb I was with at the Beachcomber is starting to show through, and I smile, the familiar affection in his tone making me warm inside. 

“You tell me.” I know what I want to do. I just want to hear him say it. 

“I want to hear you come, Sarah.” 

I utter a sigh that comes out more like a moan, and, briefly, I think, ‘God, how many people are listening to this?’ 

It’s at least a dozen CIA agents, for now; I’m sure more will hear it later. I remind myself that they have no way of knowing that this is real. They’ll just think I’m one hell of an actress. 

There are also at least one or two terrorists who’ll hear what we’re about to do, but I don’t care about them. And I really want this – need this – intimacy with Clay, even as removed as it is. 

“I want you to come, too.” I’m making my way down the hallway to my bedroom, un-doing the button and zipper on my jeans as I do. 

“You can count on it. What’re you doing now?” 

“I’m lying on my bed, with my pants off… and I’m touching myself.” 

“Where?” 

Wow, he wants details. Okay, I can give him details. 

“I’ve got my hand in my underwear, feeling how wet I am… for you.” I hear him moan on the other end of the line, so I continue. “I’m imagining what you’re going to do to me next time we’re together.” 

“What do you want me to do?” He’s panting between the words. The idea of Clay getting himself off to my voice turns me on even more. 

“I want you to kiss me; I want you to touch me. I want you to use your hands and your mouth on me.” For better access, I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder. 

I move my hands over myself, teasing and exploring my body; pretending it’s Clay’s hands and mouth. 

“I love doing that to you. You taste *so* good.” 

“I want you to drive me wild tasting me.” I’m getting really close, and want to finish myself off; I just need another minute. 

“God, Sarah, I want to be with you.” 

I really hope he means it and isn’t putting this on entirely for show. Right now, I *almost* don’t care, though, because just thinking about him making love to me – his body entering mine – is enough. I feel my muscles clenching and releasing in delicious spasms, and I let the phone drop to the bed and bounce onto the floor as I hit the peak. 

//WEBB// 

The primal part of me really wanted to have phone sex with her. What we had before was so private; this situation is much more public – well, as public as things get in the CIA. 

But as soon as I gave her an opening, she ran with it, and, at that point, I didn’t care who was listening. By being genuine in our desire, we were giving the terrorists exactly what we wanted them to hear, so it wasn’t compromising the mission – it was *good* for the mission, I convinced myself. 

Thinking of Sarah touching herself, gliding her fingers over her own wet folds was so erotic. My erection was already hard, and I was stroking myself when I’d admitted I wanted to hear her come. When she did, I nearly went over the edge, too. But I held off, wanting to hear her pant her climax, before I lost myself in my own pleasure. 

I think she dropped the phone, though. So much for staying with her through the end. From the comfort of a low, overstuffed leather chair in my living room, I wait patiently for her to recover enough to retrieve the phone. 

“Was it good for you?” I ask when she returns; I’m cockily sure that she’ll be able to hear the smirk in my voice. 

“Not as good as when I’m with you,” she shoots back. I grin, imagining her smiling at me, ready to tease and banter, as well as please and pleasure. 

I’m still touching myself, recreating in my mind what it was like to be with her. “You know, I remember *exactly* what you feel like.” 

“Really? Tell me about that.” 

I tell her how it felt to be with her – how I’d memorized every intimate detail of her body, and how it felt to be with her – inside her. 

At that description, I hear Sarah breathing hard again and I’m almost there. “I want you to come again. Come for me.” 

I sound desperate, but I don’t care. I am. I want her; I need this release with her even if it’s just over the phone. 

“Clay…” she breathes, and I’m coming, too. Hot spurts flow down my hand as I fling my head back, finally opening my eyes, and I realize that they’d been closed the whole time. 

~ Part Four ~ We’ll Meet, I Know We’ll Meet 

//MAC// 

The phone call was just two days ago, but it seems like an eternity as I wait for Clay to board the plane that’ll take us to Cairo . 

I’ve been sitting in my first class seat for about 15 minutes. Webb gave me the aisle seat, and I’m grateful for the feeling of extra legroom it will offer. Harm and the Admiral are across the aisle from me. I’m already undercover as Sarah Layton, so there’s no conversation between us. 

Realizing that I’ve been staring at the same page of Cosmo for nearly six minutes, I blink a few times, look up to the front of the plane and sigh softly, anxious to get on with this assignment. And, admittedly, I’m a bit nervous about seeing Clay in person again. 

My eyes drop to the magazine again, but I know I won’t be able to concentrate. I’d bought it thinking it was what ‘Sarah Layton’ might read on a long flight. The sex quiz was entertaining, albeit completely inaccurate; but the rest is just down right stupid. I guess ‘Female Marine Attorney’ isn’t one of their target demographics. 

Finally, two minutes and fifty-two seconds before we’re due to take off, Webb boards the plane. He’s in a suit, of course, one that’s the color of light desert sand. 

My heart beats faster and I try to think of something to say that will be in character, but will have a double meaning to Clay. 

Before I can come up with anything clever, he’s bending down and kissing me hungrily. “You were so good on the phone. I’m so glad you could come with me, Sarah, now we can finally be alone.” 

And then he winks at me. It strikes me as an odd gesture. Is he doing it for me – Sarah MacKenzie; or is this in character for this affair we’re supposed to be having? 

Clay then gregariously greets the Admiral and Harm. In case there’s anyone on the plane tailing him, it’s important to establish that they’re already acquainted, so that if overt contact in Dubai becomes necessary, it won’t appear out of the ordinary. 

“Sarah, I want you to meet Admiral AJ Chegwidden and Commander Harmon Rabb, Junior,” Clay says, putting a teasing spin on Harm’s somewhat unwieldy full name. 

I halfway stand from my seat and lean across the aisle to shake their hands. “Admiral, Commander; nice to meet you.” 

Chuckling, Clay interjects. “Sarah, we’re not exactly at work here. Please, call them AJ and Harm.” 

I smile and agree to use their first names. Clay’s definitely having some fun with this, making no attempt to disguise his amusement at the situation we’re in with my boss and the man who might have, at one time, been a rival for my affections. 

We all take our seats and settle in for the long flight. I’m able to doze on and off for a couple of hours after the meals have been served. When I wake up, I find Clay’s head resting on my shoulder and a large soft blanket draped over both of us. 

I sit up, stretching my stiff back. “Hey,” Clay says sleepily, lifting his head. 

“Hello,” I whisper in his ear. 

“Are they asleep?” Not moving his head, he shifts his eyes in the direction of Harm and the Admiral. 

“Soundly.” 

He adjusts his position in the seat, moving closer to me, and, concealed by the blanket that’s over us, he puts a hand high up on my leg. Within minutes, he manages to get his left hand under the waistband of my skirt. Probably a wise course. If I were to hike it up, anyone - including the Admiral - would be able to see my bare legs, since the blanket is just covering our torsos and laps. 

Clay’s mouth is right near my ear, and he’s placing soft kisses on it and my neck. “I can’t wait to get you alone.” 

“I thought you weren’t the one who picked me for this assignment.” I say it playfully, but ever since he’d mentioned it at JAG Ops, I’ve wanted to know why. I guess my insecurities need soothing. Is it because he doesn’t trust that I can carry out the assignment, or because of our personal relationship? 

“Not because I didn’t want to see you. I love traveling in exotic locales with you.” He emphasizes the word exotic by slipping his hand into my panties before he continues, his fingers tickling the top edge of my curls. “You’re actually the ideal choice for this mission; I’d just rather see you without thinking about terrorists or putting on some inane act.” 

In between sentences, he’s still kissing my hairline just behind my left ear, and I’m getting very turned on. His mere proximity is electrifying, and I want to reach for him. For the moment – and the location – I’m satisfied with what he’s doing to me. And the way he’s moving his fingers farther down leaves me without a doubt that the outcome will be satisfying. 

“Feel good?” 

“Ummm, yes.” 

He’s got his arm draped across my body, his hand down my skirt, and he’s moving his fingers over my folds, spreading my increasing wetness over me. 

As he speaks softly, I close my eyes and concentrate on his hand and his hot breath in my ear, encouraging me towards release as he manipulates my swollen and ready nerve endings. 

I’m so close and just need one more thing to unleash the tightness that’s wound through my body. I turn my head and find Clay’s lips with mine. I feel his tongue brush past my lips, and I’m there. As I come, he leans harder against my mouth, swirling his tongue around mine. 

We quietly disengage ourselves from each other and the blanket. As I’m straightening my clothes and hair back into place, Harm startles me with a question. “You okay, Sarah? You look flushed.” 

It’s so strange to hear my first name from him. There’ve been only a handful of times Harm’s said it. I used to crave hearing it from him, and even wished to have heard it from his lips in moments of intimacy. Now, it’s just annoying; like he’s doing it on purpose to annoy me, to make a point that he *can*. Well, buddy, you should’ve thought of that years ago, you could’ve been calling me Sarah all along; now it’s way too late. And, besides, I’m far better off now. 

Okay, I’ve clearly got some baggage there. 

“I just got warm sleeping under the blanket.” 

“You know how it is, Harm, shared body heat…” Clay chimes in, as he leans towards Harm while draping himself across my body in a very familiar and slightly intimate way. 

Oh, yeah. Clayton Webb is loving this. 

//WEBB// 

I’m enjoying this, I admit it. I’m almost positive that there are no lingering feelings between Sarah and Rabb, but if she and I are going to continue a relationship, I think it’ll still be a challenge for him to accept it. I imagine there’ll be some posturing and typical alpha-male protectiveness to put up with. So I’m having my fun now, while I can. 

It’s nearly impossible in our current situation to make a real connection with Sarah, and it’s incredibly frustrating. Our every communication is being scrutinized by someone. AJ and Rabb are on alert, and I’d bet that we’re being followed by one of those renegade Islamic Jihad members. 

I loved getting Sarah off, though. While our sex play on the phone was more physically satisfying for me, this was far more intimate, and I’ve missed sharing that with her. Unfortunately for me, as a man, such subtlety of release isn’t quite as feasible from a hand job   
on an airplane. 

I don’t think I’ve ever felt as physically *and* emotionally comfortable with a woman before. Physically, yes. Emotionally, no. And to have discovered that it’s possible to find both such satisfying parts of a relationship with one person is a revelation. Sarah’s brought out a true desire for intimacy in me that I hadn’t known existed. I worry some about the effect of that distraction while we’re in the field. I pray everything will go smoothly so we’ll have a real chance at exploring this. 

We’ve finally arrived in Cairo , and have to hurry across the terminal to make the connecting flight to Dubai . Traveling in the Middle East is always an adjustment. Men and women carry themselves differently here; both in attitude and bearing, especially now. Tensions are high in almost every region, and the air is charged with it. My eyes sweep the terminal, and I confirm my suspicion that we’re being followed. I feel a sense of satisfaction that my hunch was right; although, for my own safety, and Sarah’s, I wish it hadn’t been. 

Despite our tail, the flight to Dubai is uneventful, and, once on the ground with our luggage in hand, we share a cab with Rabb and Chegwidden to the hotel. Sarah and I will be sharing a suite, as will Rabb and Chegwidden, who’ll set it up to act as the surveillance and communications center for this operation. 

We arrive at the Burj al Arab hotel and check in without incident, although our unwelcome guest hasn’t let up once. Standing at the reception desk, I steal a glance while tucking my wallet away, and see him seated casually on a long low couch in the center of the lobby. He appears to pose no immediate threat; not yet, anyway. Truthfully, unless these guys are real amateurs, our tail won’t be a threat, but more of a shadow. 

Finally in our suite, Sarah and I stand dumbstruck in the doorway. I’d heard rumors about the luxury of the Burj, but these accommodations surpass all expectations. On a raised dais in the center of the main room is the bed, complete with four sturdy posts that run all the way to the ceiling. The furniture is a heavy, dark wood with gold trim, which I suspect is real; the walls are adorned with a deep, rich gold and maroon wallpaper. A chaise lounge, two carved wood chairs with padded seats, and a loveseat make up the furniture in the sitting room area. The bathroom is practically a suite in itself. 

There’s a shower with six shower heads, two sinks, two toilets, a bidet, and an enormous tub with jets. A set of floor to ceiling windows provide a view out over the water. 

“Wow,” is all we keep saying, and I’m not worried about the recording devices that are no doubt already in place, since it’s precisely the reaction the room was designed to elicit. 

I make a mental note to send some kind of thank you gift to the agency staff for setting this up. 

As we continue our inspection of the room – noting the fruit basket on the wet bar, the fully stocked refrigerator, and complimentary bathrobes and slippers – we sweep the room for bugs, and confirm that we’re being monitored; but there are no video cameras. Then, we affix our own listening devices in out-of-the-way hiding places. 

Once finished with our work, I look over to Sarah. She’s already taking advantage of the view from one of the suite’s three balconies. With a heavy heart, sad that we can’t take our time to fully enjoy each other or the room, I watch the way her russet hair is lifting and swaying lightly in the breeze that’s coming off the water. 

Approaching her, I place my hands on her shoulders to let her know I’m there, and she leans back to rest on my chest. Enfolding her in my arms, I nuzzle her neck and she hums an affectionate reply. It’s so comfortable and familiar that it’s hard for me to believe that we’d only recently, and so briefly, gotten physically close. 

“Clay…” 

“I like the sound of that. I was tired of being Cabby,” I whisper in her ear, taking advantage as she pauses before continuing quietly. 

“I was worried about you. I’m glad you’re okay, and I’m glad I’m here with you.” 

“Me, too.” 

We can’t guarantee that the sweep of the room revealed all the bugs in the suite, so we keep our ‘real’ conversation quiet and minimal. For now, it’ll have to be enough to stand here together, holding on and feeling the warmth and comfort of our bodies. 

“Clay, you promised we could go out tonight.” 

Sarah brings us back to reality with her demanding statement. She’s right; we need to be seen out on the town. 

She takes my hand and weaves our fingers together as we cross the threshold back into the suite. We take our time freshening up, even having fun with our role playing, bantering back and forth. And, by the time we’re ready to go, her stomach is growling. 

“I think my stomach’s still stuck about six time zones back, and it’s missed at least two meals.” 

As Sarah reaches to the bed to retrieve her purse from where she’d flung it earlier, she freezes – halfway bent over and looking at me with the widest grin on her face. 

“What?” Just seeing her smiling like that while standing *next to* a bed causes my mind to head straight toward the gutter; but I can’t tell what’s on her mind. 

“C’mere.” 

I walk to the opposite side of the bed and lean forward, thinking that maybe she’s listening to something. But as I stand there, she grabs my head with both of her hands and rotates it so I’m looking at the ceiling. 

Actually, I’m not looking at the ceiling at all, but a giant mirror mounted onto the ceiling. Right over the bed. We look from the mirror to each other and back to the mirror, locking gazes in the reflection and grinning like the proverbial cats who ate the canary. Oh, yeah, this will be *lots* of fun. 

~ Part Five ~ Beyond the Shore, We’ll Kiss Just as Before 

//MAC// 

The suite we’re booked into is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s right out of 1,001 Arabian Nights; but very modern at the same time. And I’m not sure they had mirrors over their beds back then. But I’m not complaining. In fact, I plan on putting that mirror to good use later on tonight. 

Dispensing with the business of planting our bugs in the room, I’d taken a moment to enjoy the view out over the Arabian Gulf and its incredibly blue waters. The breeze felt good, and it brought me back to the Beachcomber Resort – it’s amazing how the sea can evoke the same scent memories, even a half a world away. 

Part of me hates that we’re here, having to act out this charade. Another part of me is thankful just to be with Clay again. As I was beginning to feel real anxiety about the depth of my feelings for Clay and was ready to give into doubts about continuing the closeness we’d developed, I felt him behind me. 

I’d known he was near before he touched me – and I loved how I was able to sense him that way. 

After pointing out the mirror to him, and agreeing silently that we’d be sure to give it a full ‘test run’ later, Clay seamlessly picked up with our cover. 

“Come on, Sarah. I thought you wanted to go shopping. But don’t think I’m going to buy you everything you lay your eyes on – I’ve got a wife who looks at the credit card statements, you know.” 

At the mention of Clay’s ‘wife,’ I feel a surprisingly sickening stab of jealousy over simply the idea that he would be sharing a bed with someone else. I guess I can use that to my advantage – it makes sense that the mistress would *not* want to hear about the wife. 

“Well, Clay, if that’s how you’re going to be, why don’t you trot your arrogant butt back home to the little woman and see if she can show you as good a time as I can!?” 

Clay glares at me, obviously confused or impressed – I can’t tell. And I realize how difficult this is going to be. There’s too many emotions brewing just beneath the surface and too many chances for double meanings in every word or gesture. 

I take a deep breath, smile at him and wink. “Oh, don’t be such a grouch. Let’s go. You can pay cash for whatever you want to buy me.” 

At that, Clay laughs out loud and my stomach unclenches from the nervousness I’d just felt. Maybe this will be okay. 

Dubai turns out to be a *huge* shopping town. This arms ‘trade show’ is coinciding with the annual Shopping Festival. I guess they really know how to combine business and pleasure. Which is just what I hope Clay and I can do. Dubai is also a vacation destination for a lot of Europeans; especially now, as Dubai ’s position as a world market for commerce and banking has forced a large degree of social progress. Women are allowed to drive alone, and many of them work outside the home. While it’s common to see women in full burka dress, many are also in more modern attire with simple head scarves. And for westerners, the customs are even more relaxed. 

It’s an amazing, bustling city full of contrasts. I spot a man in traditional white dress, getting into a Ferrari. And on the sidewalk, a woman walking by, dressed in an all black burka, her face hidden, suddenly emits a loud chirping sound, and, when she reaches into her clothes, she produces a Nokia cell phone – a model newer than anything you can yet get in the States. 

As we ride in the taxi to the shopping district, I try not to let the modern accessories of Dubai fool me into complacency, thinking I’m on a weekend excursion to New York City.

The materials the CIA provided to me about the United Arab Emirates outlined the ties to Dubai has, both to and from, just about every nation in the world – “Axis of Evil” or not. In the past decade, while Afghanistan has become the hotbed of terrorism and a center for arms dealing, those same influences began supporting a multi-billion dollar trade industry in goods smuggled from Dubai to Pakistan and other points through the Middle and Far East. 

Dubai has certainly earned its reputation as the ‘ Venice of the Gulf.’ It’s the chief port and commercial center of the country. A city of over 1 million inhabitants, it’s the second largest of the seven emirates. And, perhaps because of the infinitely complex social, religious, political, and economic structures at play here, I’m utterly fascinated.

Stepping out of the cab, Clay takes my hand to help me out, but we maintain a respectable physical distance from each other, befitting our location. 

The mall we enter is enormous. Marble and mirrors adorn the floors and walls, and the cool inside is a nice contrast to the hot desert night outside. There are palm trees in the two-story openness of the mall, and Clay laughs when I say it looks very ‘LA.’ 

I make a show of ogling the DeBeers display in a window full of the gaudiest rings I’ve ever seen. They’re nothing I’d ever even consider wearing; but I find the role of ‘spoiled, greedy mistress’ one that’s more than a little bit fun to play. 

“Claaay, don’t you just *love* that one?” I point to what I figure is a 10 karat yellow diamond in a setting of woven gold. 

“I thought I loved you because you had simple tastes in jewelry,” Clay hedges. 

“Wrong! You love me because I’m good in bed. I love you because I have *rich* tastes in boyfriends. Buy it for me.” 

The expression on Clay’s face morphs from a twinkle of excitement at my boast of sexual prowess to panic as I insist he make the outrageous purchase. I’ve got no clue what kind of budget he’s got for this op, but if the ring will wipe out his reserves, he’ll find a way to get out of this. 

“Stay here; I’ll go in and make the arrangements.” 

I smile sweetly, and try to appear completely convinced that the ring will be mine before we leave the country. I know, however, that it’s more likely that Clay will step inside, tell the store manager that he needs to make a show of things; they’ll talk for a few minutes about the weather, and I’ll be ‘convinced’ that it’s a done deal. 

When Clay exits from the store, he shakes his finger at me in a mock-scold. “You bad girl; making me do things I shouldn’t.” 

He knows full well that I was yanking his chain, but I think it’s one of the things he likes about me. I can get his goat, and I enjoy it, too. 

The rest of the evening is spent in much the same way – we banter as a ‘couple,’ have dinner at a lovely restaurant, and in the end, he does end up buying me jewelry. It’s a beautiful emerald necklace; a string of emerald cut stones, deep green, each in a delicate white gold setting; but with them all together, it gives the necklace the appearance of a heavier piece. When Clay pulls out his wallet, I see that he uses a credit card instead of cash, and fleetingly wonder if maybe he’s actually buying it for *me.* 

My hopes are confirmed right after we exit the jewelry store. Clay pulls me into a small hallway that, I think, leads to the restrooms, and he pulls my blouse aside to kiss my neck where I’d just tried on the necklace. Nibbling, Clay makes his way to my ear, making me tingle in little shivers with each nip. 

In my ear, he whispers, “I wanted to buy that for *you*, Sarah; not the op.” 

My stomach drops in an excitement that sends my heart pounding; I’m nervous about what I’m about to say, but it’s the absolute truth. “You don’t have to buy my love, you already have it.” 

Backing up from his embrace about me, Clay looks into my eyes and speaks softly. “I know. I just don’t know how, right now, to tell you everything.” He holds me to him again, and in the softest possible voice, he breathes, “I want to go home and be with you.” 

Now my heart is positively racing. I thought everything that’d happened between us before was surprising, but this is absolutely breathtaking. While things at the Beachcomber were always tempered with humor and teasing; all that’s gone now. He’s playing for real, and I know it; so am I. 

“Me, too,” I tell him.

We look at each other again – a million words of love and affection not spoken. I know it’s time to play up our roles once again, so with a deep breath, I admonish him. 

“Clay! Not here! I’m not some cheap floozy! I thought you loved and respected me!” I finish it off with a smack across his cheek. 

Clay’s stunned; but then a patented Webb smirk covers his surprise, followed by a cocksure grin. 

“Sarah, I do.” 

“Well, then take me back to the hotel and prove it.” 

With that, we’re nearly running to catch a cab, and, once inside, Clay begins a sensual assault on my neck, and he inquires in an extremely amused voice if I think Rabb and Chegwidden were getting a kick out of following us and witnessing our little shows of mistress and boyfriend. 

Oops, I’d almost forgotten about Harm and Admiral Chegwidden. Well, at least they were just tailing us and didn’t get to hear it all. It is a bit weird to be putting on this show with them ‘in the know.’ 

But with the way Clay’s nipping at the tender spot on my neck, just below my ear, I couldn’t care less. 

//WEBB// 

I’ve been to the UAE more times than I can count. Almost every kind of monetary or physical piece of the illegal arms trade spends some time in Dubai . In spite of the nefarious underpinnings of the city, it’s one of my favorite places to visit. There’s a strange decadence about the city; and if there’s ever been anything good about underground trading of weapons and intelligence, it’s the benefits that the industry has bestowed on Dubai . It’s an efficiently run city, and it’s almost the perfect balance between Islamic traditions and modern conveniences. I’ve participated in equestrian events at their annual world-class horse show and met local contacts in dirty hole-in-the-wall tea-houses. Dubai is a one of a kind ‘best of both worlds’ metropolis. 

But I could be in a rickshaw in the poorest part of the world right now, and I’d not care. Sarah’s with me, and she smells intoxicating. Her body, next to me in the cab, is the very satisfying physical manifestation of her as an individual. 

Her body is fantastic, her face is captivatingly beautiful, but she can kick almost anyone’s ass to hell and back, and there’s an inner strength about her as well. She straddles the worlds of Marine and femininity with grace. 

After the fun we shared at the Beachcomber, we’ve certainly traded it in for seriousness. Maybe it’s the situation; maybe it’s because we never really got a chance to do any kind of ‘debriefing’ afterwards. I know I surprised her by expressing my love when I left her at the airport, and we’ve not been able to talk about any of what happened, or where things will go from here. 

The intensity of being together on assignment has put a whole different feel between us. And, for me, the reality of being in a potentially life threatening situation, has made me all the more sure of my feelings for her, and has increased my urgency to be sure she’s aware of them.   
As we stumble into our room, almost falling over from our groping, I’m struck with the desperate way we’re starting our love making. There’s 10 weeks of pent up sexual desire, not to mention some heavy petting in the cab, and perhaps it’s pure instinct to cling this way to your lover while in the middle of a potentially dangerous situation. 

I shove aside the errant thoughts of the dangers of being emotionally involved on an op, and throw the lock and chain on the door, choosing to view this kind of intimacy as something that can be an advantage. 

We fling our packages to the side, and I rip off my suit jacket. Not really separating, we manage to navigate the step up to the bed, and fall to the mattress with a mutual, “Ooof.” 

I’m absolutely hungry for her. I encourage her to slip her blouse off over her head, and, when she does, I finally get to see her full breasts spilling over the top of her bra. The creamy look of her skin lives up to its promise as I kiss and caress my lips against her chest and the swell of her breasts. 

Sarah’s hands are busy undoing the buttons on my shirt, and I’m rewarded with a light raking of her nails over my chest – a full blown shiver courses through my body, and I can feel my erection growing even larger. 

God, I’ve missed her. Funny how after just a few days together more than two months ago would have become so addicting, but I feel like we’re long lost lovers who were together for years and had been separated for equally as long. 

I feel my way down to her skirt and manage to get it off of her without breaking my concentration on kissing her body. I wriggle a hand into her panties and marvel at how here, in the desert, she can be so wet. 

“Wait,” Sarah pants, as she maneuvers to remove her bra. But before I can even make a millimeter of a move towards her she stops me. “Your turn – let’s get some of those clothes off.” 

No argument here. I kneel on the bed and take my shirt off the rest of the way, and, while I begin to undo my belt buckle, Sarah’s already unzipping my fly. 

We get my pants all the way undone and half way down; Sarah becomes side tracked, and I can’t complain. She’s caressing my erection through my boxers with one hand, while the other hand has gone up through one of the leg holes to lightly brush my sensitive skin. 

“Sarah, no one’s ever touched me the way you do.” I look down at her through aroused eyes, and she reflects my gaze back at me. 

After a very short time, I can’t wait any longer. She had some sexual relief on the plane, but I’m about to burst. And I want to hold her and really make love to her. 

Moving to pull my pants and boxers off, shedding my shoes and socks first, Sarah gets the clue and strips back the comforter on the bed to reveal satin sheets. Our eyes meet and she raises her eyebrows up and down a couple of times, and I laugh easily. 

Settling back in the bed, Sarah holds her hand out to me as I join her, nestling myself between her legs, my hardness pressing at her moist center. She pulls me to her, and, as I begin to enter her tight core, I can’t help myself. “Ahhh, I was right.” 

“Huh?” Sarah’s understandably confused by my obscure remark, but she’s arching her pelvis to increase and maximize the contact. 

“I *do* remember exactly how you feel,” I explain my reference to my comment on the phone. 

“Know it all,” she bandies back, before kissing me passionately, snaking her tongue into my mouth and engaging my tongue in a sensual caress. 

Our bodies together feel so good; comforting and exciting. Like a drink of water after 40 days in the desert. 

We move in tandem – in traditional ‘missionary’ position – but it’s working out just fine for both of us, if her cries of pleasure and grip on my shoulders are any indication. As she climaxes, I’m not long to follow, and we let our bodies go absolutely limp at the same time – bringing forth giggles from us both. 

We lie silently for a while, and I’m sure she’s doing what I am – blatantly ignoring the fact that Chegwidden and Rabb, as well as who knows who else, could’ve heard our entire encounter. Turning my head and rolling to the side, I kiss Sarah, and it’s the perfect elixir to make me forget about anything else in the world. 

At long last, probably an hour later – one that we fill with silence and simple, soft caresses – we rise from the bed and clean up a bit. We’ve still got to rendezvous with Rabb to get the latest report, which he should’ve picked up by now from our CIA guys on the ground – it will tell us what our targets have been up to. 

After quick showers and a change of clothes, we head to the hotel bar, which is smoky and dark. Sarah and I grab a booth in the corner, and I go to meet with Rabb and to get us drinks.   
When I return, after some time, without drinks, Sarah knows right away that something’s not gone according to plan. 

~ Part Six ~ My Lover Stands on Golden Sands 

//MAC// 

I love Clay. The thought keeps playing through my mind while I wait for him to return with our drinks – and the updated intel from Harm. 

And he loves me. That’s the echo to the first thought; and it sounds pretty darned good to me. 

This past year has really sucked for me: Harm taking a frightening dip in the drink, a failed wedding, and almost losing my life at knifepoint in Afghanistan . It’s been one of those, ‘if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t’ phases – but everything’s a learning experience; and I’m glad I’m where I am today, so I’m inclined to chalk it up to a ‘learning experience’ and leave it at that.

Clay’s gone far longer than I would’ve expected, and I feel a twinge of concern. Trying to calm myself, I go over the plan in my head, reviewing the details to keep my mind occupied. But there are so many unknowns on this mission that it’s hard not to let my mind wander. We’re still not sure if Clay will be approached with the blackmail here or back in DC; but the fact that we’ve been tailed everywhere we’ve been tells me it’ll be here. And we don’t know what they’ll demand as payment – Clay’s got the false documents that will act as intelligence reports, in case he has to hand over something before we’re able to bust the little party up. We also don’t know if it’ll just be a messenger who’s sent to deal with Clay. We’ve been banking on it being someone at least in the middle ranks of the terrorist cell. 

When I see Clay returning, no drinks in hand, I know something has gotten off track. Clay never forgets details like that. 

He slides into the booth next to me, his expression a mask of composure. Damn that CIA training. I’m starting to get worried about Harm. 

“It’s over,” Clay finally says. “We can go home.” 

“What? What happened? Where’s Harm?” 

“Men’s room. He’ll be here in a minute with drinks.” 

“Okay… And?” I demand. 

“And Kamal Sedki’s been killed. He’s been the ringleader for this particular renegade group of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad, and apparently, without him, the rest of the cell is lost. They left. Went home. Gave up on me. Our guys followed six known members of Sedki’s group all the way to the airport, watched them board a plane for Cairo, and saw it take off.” 

“So, what now?” 

“Well, I’ll have a hell of a mound of paperwork to fill out, and will have to get to Cairo eventually to make contact with our people in place there. But there’s no urgency on either of those things. So… want to stay for a few days?” 

I don’t get a chance to answer, as we’re interrupted by Harm, with the Admiral in tow, holding our drinks. When they join us, after handshakes and nods of appreciation for the job done – if only half done – things become very awkward. Extremely. Clay has his hand on my leg under the table, and is drawing slow, sensual circles with his fingers. I can feel the sex oozing off of him, and wonder if my commanding officer and my partner can sense the mood. 

Small chit-chat about the weather and the opulence of the hotel fills the awkward air between us all until, in record time, we’re all done with our drinks and Harm’s nervously playing with the wedge of lime he’d squeezed into his beer. And when Harm and Chegwidden get up to say good night, not quite sure why we’re not following, I decide to be bold.

“Be right back,” I say softly to Clay, as I get up to follow them. 

“Admiral?” 

He turns, as does Harm, but when I point to the Admiral, Harm actually manages to get the drift that I want to speak to our CO privately. 

We step aside, into a corner of the lobby of the hotel, and I take a breath before speaking. 

“Admiral, I’d like to request three days leave in addition to the travel day to return home.” 

“Mac? Is there something you’d like to tell me about your relationship with Mr. Webb?” 

“Well, sir, I…” Before I have to completely embarrass myself by admitting that, yes, what he’d probably heard from me over the audio surveillance equipment while I was with Clay was, indeed, ‘not faking it,’ he interrupts by holding up a hand to stop me. 

“Stop. I think I understand.” I have to try *very* hard to suppress a smirk at the fact that his face and entire bald head are turning beet red at what he is, no doubt, realizing. “Take the time; we’ll see you back at the office. I’ll tell Harm you’re enjoying the *shopping* here; but, *please*, don’t make me tell him what’s really going on. You can do that back in the States.” 

“Yes, sir,” I say a bit too happily, which earns me a frown. “Um, have a good flight home. When are you leaving?” 

“First thing in the morning.” 

“See you back at work, sir.” 

When I return, Clay asks with a gleam of hope in his eye if I was asking for time off. I answer in the form of a firm kiss on his lips. We stay in the bar a bit longer while I fill him in on my conversation, and he nearly snarfs his Pepsi through his nose. 

Back in the room, we make quiet love with all the lights out and the windows open to the sea.   
In the morning, we sleep lazily in, still luxuriating in the fact that we’re in this foreign port of call and free to do whatever we please. Or whomever, as the case may be. 

I feel Clay’s erection pressing against my leg, as he hums a “Good morning” into my ear. I shift, pressing against him in a way that he’ll not mistake my intentions. 

“Look up,” I say. And when he does, we look at one another in the ceiling mirror and grin twin smiles, anticipating exploring the virtues of that mirror to the fullest extent, which we hadn’t gotten around to yesterday. 

At first, it’s kind of funny, I’ve never seen myself lying down in front of a ceiling mirror before – and I don’t ask if Clay has – but we spend a few minutes making faces and posing in funny shapes, like on Sesame Street , trying to make letters or numbers. 

Finally, all that squirming around while naked turns into something more sensual, and I grab Clay and toss him on his back, straddling him quickly to give him the message that I want to take charge of the situation. Shifting to sit to one side of him, I take my time caressing his body lightly with my hands, ever so gently scraping my nails up his legs, aiming for the his erection, which twitches as I reach his inner thighs and just barely touch his scrotum, before caressing his hard length. 

I look at his face, and see that Clay’s eyes are positively riveted on the mirror – I can tell it’s a huge turn on for him to watch me touch him; his lips are slightly parted, and every couple of seconds he takes in a deep breath and licks his lips. It’s the sexiest thing to watch, and I feel my body preparing for the love making that will soon follow. 

Concentrating back on his body, I continue to stroke him, teasing my fingers low down on his erection with each caress, and I kiss his chest and tease a nipple between my teeth. With his increasing arousal, Clay finally begins to touch me, as well, and I get the notion that he likes watching *that* in the mirror even better, because when he turns his head and holds my breast at his mouth, while keeping his eyes upward, he moans. 

I smile and arch my back, encouraging him. Complying, Clay circles my already taut and needy nipple with his tongue, keeping a careful eye above us the whole time. I watch him first hand, enjoying the close up view. 

Maneuvering down the bed, I ask Clay to sit up a little, and I toss him another pillow. His Cheshire grin tells me he full well knows where I’m going with this. I settle down low and begin to kiss his erection here and there – never staying in one place for long, but I keep my hands busy, stroking his thighs. With a last, long lick, I take him into my mouth and begin to swirl my tongue around him as I move up and down. 

On an upstroke, I look to see Clay watching me in the mirror, and the next time I look, he’s got his eyes on me in person. Sort of a two-view option. I smile – mission accomplished. 

Actually, not quite yet accomplished, and when Clay reaches to tug my hair a tiny bit, I stop and bring my body back up to his. I swing a leg over his groin and bring our centers into contact. Clay persuades me further with a tilt of his hips, and I sink down on top of him. After a minute of tandem movement, we flip over, and I get treated to the view of the back of him as he strokes in and out of me. When my core tightens to a vice grip, I look up to observe Clay’s strong back, rear, and leg muscles working me toward release, and I’m crashing over the edge instantly. Shutting my eyes tightly – I don’t need to see this part – it’s only seconds later that I feel Clay pulsing inside me – I take a peek for that. 

//WEBB// 

Thank god. Those were the words that leapt to mind when Harm filled me in. At first, when he’d tugged me into the men’s room instead of just handing off the information as I passed him by the bar, like we’d planned, I was enraged. But as soon as we were inside, and he told me that the op was basically over, I could’ve kissed him. 

I did get a huge kick out of touching Sarah under the table in front of AJ and Harm, but when Sarah told me that the always-in-control Admiral had turned three shades of red upon realizing that there was no ‘faking it’ going on, I almost spit out my soda. 

What a wonderful luxury to be here with Sarah. We destroyed the bugs in our room – both theirs and ours - and made love. And now, this mirror thing has me hooked. 

As I roll off Sarah and onto my back to lie next to her, we intertwine our fingers and hold hands while staring at one another in the mirror over head. 

“You’ve just convinced me to get one of those things for my bedroom,” I joke, only halfway kidding. 

“What? You don’t already have one?” 

I realize she’s never even been to my place at all, much less in the bedroom. We’ll have to fix that when we return. 

“Maybe you can help me pick one out, and then help break it in – so to speak, on the breaking part. We don’t want seven years of bad luck.” 

Sarah laughs, with a slightly bitter edge to the sound. “I feel like I just got over about seven years of bad luck…” 

She doesn’t expand on the statement, but I know what’s happened in the past few years. Dalton ’s murder; Chris’ accidental death; her rocky and eventually failed relationship with Mic. 

“I hope this is the beginning of a run of good luck – for both of us.” 

“Well, the beginnings are certainly auspicious.” Sarah smiles at me warmly. 

We shower and get ready at a relaxed pace – even ordering some room service to keep Sarah from going ballistic because she’s not yet eaten. 

I’m sitting in one of the overly decorated wood carved chairs, which is surprisingly comfortable, with its large cushion to sit on and curved arms. I’m only half dressed, but I’m watching Sarah – she’s much more entertaining to watch than getting my own clothes on. 

When she catches on that I’m her audience, she makes a big deal of shimmying around, doing a reverse strip tease for me. Then she comes over and kneels in front of me. I don’t even have my underwear on yet, and only have a shirt halfway on – the buttons still undone. 

As Sarah eyes my groin, I feel the blood rushing there, and in no time I’m wielding a strong erection. Sarah’s licking her lips and running her hands leisurely up my thighs. My muscles tense in anticipation of her mouth around me. She finally kisses and licks her way toward my erection, and, as she sucks me in fully, I run my fingers through her hair, still damp from her shower. She draws me in and out, with her tongue deftly sliding around the sensitive underside of my tip. I clench my hands into fists in her hair, careful not to pull too tightly, but enough to telegraph that I like what she’s doing to me – and not to stop. I’m almost desperately pleading for release with my hands, and in no time, Sarah’s delivered it to me. 

“That was great.” 

I just get a sly smile from her as she gets up and fetches a glass of orange juice. She takes a big gulp, swallows, and gets a terrible expression on her face. 

“Is it sour?” I ask, concerned. 

“No. But let’s just say that having orange juice after *that*,” she points to my flagging erection, “is like drinking orange juice after brushing your teeth. Yuck!” 

I hoist myself up from the chair to head to the bathroom to clean up before dressing, while laughing at this new bit of trivia. “I’ll file that away – thanks for the tip!” 

We spend the day at the Dubai Shopping Festival – it’s part swap meet, part carnival, and part bazaar. Loads of fun, and we ride a small roller coaster, both commenting that ‘carnies’ – the folks who run traveling fair rides – are the same the world over. 

We’re beat by mid afternoon – the whole place is quite the sensory experience – foods, colors, textiles, people… all more than you can possibly take in during one day, so we call it quits when we start to get tired. 

After a nap at the hotel, we decide to hit the hotel’s private beach before dinner. The water’s just as blue as at the Beachcomber, and, when we’re in the water, splashing and playing around, Sarah calls me ‘Cabby,’ and we spend the rest of the time at the beach reminiscing about our fellow travelers we’d gotten to know at the Beachcomber. 

From her spot on a low beach lounge chair, Sarah asks, “Ever hear from Beatriz?” 

“Yes, as a matter of fact, we participated in a tango competition in Rio last month,” I deadpan. 

Sarah shoots me a ‘yeah, right’ crooked smile and tosses her own story back. “Good, because when Nick and Mike and I were in Las Vegas at COMDEX, they asked about you.” 

The just-setting sun prompts us to gather our sandy things and head back to our room. Once showered and dressed, I feel something funny in my boxers and pull my pants down while standing in the middle of the room. 

“Is this a new form of foreplay, Clay?” Sarah remarks, noticing me. 

“No, but I swear, I think I have sand in my underwear. That’s the only thing I hate about the beach – you always seem to get sand everywhere.” 

“In places even the CIA won’t find?” she teases, reminding me of my comment to her months earlier, on a different beach. 

Once I’ve shaken everything out of my drawers, we head out for a quick dinner – we’d filled up on food from the stalls at the Shopping Festival. Then, we head to the waterfront to watch the nightly ‘Aquafantasia’ – a water, light, and laser show on the water. It’s an amazing show of technology and garishness. 

“More ‘Vegas’ than Vegas, huh?” 

“Exactly,” I agree with Sarah’s assessment. 

Back at the hotel, completely exhausted from the day of playing our tourist role to the hilt, Sarah and I fall into bed, snuggle close, and don’t even consider sex. Well, I consider it, but decide I’m too tired and that – thank God – Sarah will be here with me in the morning. 

As I doze off, it strikes me that I could very happily fall asleep with Sarah MacKenzie in my arms every night. I hope she feels the same, because, at this point, I’m very serious about this relationship and don’t even want to consider the alternatives.

~ Part Seven ~ Happy We’ll Be Beyond the Sea 

//MAC//

I wake up early and don’t move. I want to have a little time to myself before I rouse Clay and ‘convince’ him to make love. Chuckling carefully, so as not to wake him, I take a deep breath and consider the day yesterday: nearly perfect. This close companionship and exhilarating physical relationship with Clay feels like what I’ve been missing for a long time. There’s an ease between us I’ve never had with anyone – not even close girlfriends. I’m coming to cherish this relationship like no other, and am not surprised to discover that I’m simply not willing – or probably able – to let it go. 

Nudging Clay, I find that he’s already been awake, and I just decide to have ‘the talk’ with him right then and there. 

“Clay, I love you. I know you know that; but I need you to know that I’m in this for real – for the long haul. This relationship has become vitally important to me.” 

Clay smiles and pulls me close to bestow a kiss on my forehead, before whispering against my skin, “Well, thank God for that. I love you.” 

We make love, openly expressing our emotions, and probably sounding sickeningly sweet about it. But I don’t care, and I love that Clay doesn’t seem to mind telling me how much he loves and adores me. 

We’re up earlier than yesterday, and decide to book a city tour through the concierge downstairs. We turn out to be on a bus full of Europeans. We’re the only native English speakers, and it’s really funny as the tour guide gives his spiel at each location, first in Spanish, then French, German next, once in Italian, and finally in English. With our language skills, we’ve certainly got the gist of things by the time he gets to English, and even though we tell him this at one stop, assuming he’ll be glad not to have to do the English version at each point of interest, he keeps it up all day. 

The tour is packed with sights, but it’s a great way to ‘do Dubai ’ in a day. We see the distinctive dhow sail boats racing on the sea, take the water taxi across Dubai Creek, see a small fishing village on the outskirts of town – rows and rows of fishing boats and dinghies with their oars tucked in fill the small harbor, and late in the afternoon we attend a falconing exhibition, which turns out to be the favorite part of the day for both of us. The birds are so amazingly beautiful in their flight and while they sit regally on the arms of their handlers, with their leather hoods over their eyes. It’s transfixing and timeless. 

//WEBB// 

Have I said ‘thank God for Sarah’ before? I’ll probably say it a million times before I die, and it’s looking more and more like all those times might be in her presence as well. Thank God for Sarah. 

I was going to broach the subject with her today, but she beat me to it. She’s too important to me to screw this up, and the fact that we’re both on the same page with the seriousness with which we’re approaching this relationship makes me giddily happy. 

Our city tour today was fun – if not funny, with our poor tour guide feeling obligated to translate for us even after we told him we each understood at least two of the five languages he was speaking in. 

I was captivated with the falconing demonstration. I’ve seen it before, and had an acquaintance in Pakistan who kept birds – Ahmed wanted to keep up the traditions of his father’s family, which was famous for their birding skills. But every time I witness the soaring of the raptors, I’m in awe of their beauty. 

Sarah and I decide to spend our last night in Dubai at the hotel. We order room service, eat on one of the balconies and spontaneously decide to investigate the bar – we’d seen a sign about dancing after 10pm .   
We find the same booth we were in the other night with Harm and Chegwidden, and sit out the first few songs, watching the couples on the dance floor. They’re playing an hysterical mix of music – some ‘techno,’ a smattering of Celine Dion-type songs, and a fair amount of French music. 

When I hear the strains of the next song start, I immediately stand up and hold my hand out to Sarah, which she takes readily. We walk to the dance floor, and I take her in my arms and start to sing softly. 

~ La mer  
Qu'on voit danser le long des golfes clairs  
A des reflets d'argent  
La mer  
Des reflets changeants  
Sous la pluie ~

~ La mer  
Au ciel d'ete confond  
Ses blancs moutons  
Avec les anges si purs  
La mer bergere d'azur  
Infinie ~

“Impressively bi-lingual, aren’t we, ‘Cabby?’” Sarah’s tease lets me know that she recognizes this as the French version of the song I sang to her on our last night at the Beachcomber – ‘Beyond the Sea.’ The pace is a bit slower and the lyrics are actually quite different, having been altered for the English recordings, but the tune’s the same.

~ Voyez  
Pres des etangs  
Ces grands roseaux mouilles  
Voyez  
Ces oiseaux blancs  
Et ces maisons rouillees ~

We sway together, not moving much, and I continue to murmur the words to her. Sarah sighs contentedly while resting her head on my shoulder. It’s a really nice way to end our stay in Dubai , but when the song’s over, I can think of an even better way. I smirk at my thought, and sneak in a squeeze to Sarah’s rear.

~ La mer  
Les a berces  
Le long des golfes clairs  
Et d'une chanson d'amour  
La mer  
A berce mon coeur pour la vie ~ 

Back in the room, we soak in the Jacuzzi, talking about all the things we’d seen today, and about my desire to sleep in my own bed once again; there’ve been far too few nights this past year that I’ve been home. I tell Sarah I want her there with me, and she issues an invitation into her bed, as well. 

We make love slowly, keeping the lights dim, but on just enough to steal glances into the mirror overhead. Finally, we call to the desk for a wake up call and doze off. 

~ Last Part ~ And Never Again I’ll Go Sailing 

//MAC// 

On the long flight from Cairo to DC, Clay offers to initiate me into the ‘mile high club,’ and when I ask if he’s already a member, he gets offended, telling me he’s been waiting for me, so we could join together. 

Our attempt is pathetic, however. We’re both pretty flexible people, and we’re strong, so support and contortion aren’t issues. But when Clay hikes my skirt up, and I manage to get my legs up around his waist, with him helping to hold me up, there’s terrible turbulence. It ends quickly, but by then, we can’t stop laughing, and, I swear, we just can’t get positioned right for me to sink down on him. 

“Maybe we should try this a bit later, when you’re taking it more seriously,” I say between snorts of laughter. 

“Me? I’m deadly serious. You’re the one acting like a teenager about to get busted by her parents.” 

“Not parents, but how about a stewardess or, oh, I don’t know, an *Air Marshal*?” Clay turns with baby-steps to rest my rear on the edge of the sink. 

“They’re ‘flight attendants,’ please. And I already bribed the two Air Marshals not to bother us.” 

“When? And where are they sitting?” I don’t believe him, but he had been to the restroom a couple of times on his own, so I suppose it’s possible. 

The distraction of the Air Marshal conversation has served to calm our giggles and suddenly, we’re kissing hard and fast. Clay pulls me up again, and I plunge myself down onto his erection. It’s a fast and furious round of sex, and I have to bring a hand around to my front to get myself ‘there’ a little faster than usual. 

When we emerge from the bathroom, I see Clay grinning widely towards a tall gentleman sitting on the aisle. I roll my eyes, but squeeze Clay’s hand – happy to have shared that fun little adventure with him. 

We both doze on and off for the rest of the flight, between meals and movies. I think about how worried I’d been about our relationship and ‘who’ we were at the Beachcomber, ‘who’ we were while on this operation, and ‘who’ we’d be when we got back to DC. Now I know, whether we’re Mary and Cabby, Sarah Layton and Clay, or Sarah MacKenzie and Clayton Webb, we’re always the same people to each other. I’m confidently happy, and can’t wait to be with Clay in whatever location we’re in – though home will be nice. I’d like to make him part of what makes Washington home to me.

//WEBB// 

Who wouldn’t love a sexy, smart, sensual, caring woman who’ll join the mile high club with you? Sarah’s appeal certainly isn’t her willingness to participate in unusual sexual exploits; but it’s part of the larger ‘package’ that’s Sarah MacKenzie. 

I know it’ll be difficult and, at a minimum, annoying to coordinate my out of town assignments with hers, which are much shorter and less frequent. But, as I’ve gotten older, the thought has hit me that field work isn’t something I want to do forever. Maybe it’s time to start strategizing and politicking my way into a high enough desk job, one that will allow me lots of time to take Sarah to many, many more exotic locations around the world; and for us to simply be home, together. 

END


End file.
